


in the hollow of the night (i'll give you a bouquet of zinnias, raspberries and marigolds)

by lechatnoir



Series: heliotropes and the scarlet hymns [3]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 15:36:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4569945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lechatnoir/pseuds/lechatnoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in the hollow of the night, there is a fire that flickers and a spark of chaos, and suddenly the world burns and burns, and there is nothing but silence.</p>
<p>in which, time runs out far too quickly, and the memories start to flicker out between Jean Grey and Wanda Maximoff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the hollow of the night (i'll give you a bouquet of zinnias, raspberries and marigolds)

**Author's Note:**

> originally written as a ask meme and ooooh boy this is a dousey haha. 
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @ chrysanthemumskies

_1 am, on a tuesday in August._

Jean Grey sleeps and dreams of lazy days filled with the sun flickering through the window, little potted plants filling up the windowsill of her apartment. She dreams of the world thriving, of all the conflict and chaos to stop - to freeze for just a day – just one day of peace, one day of cease-fire. 

 

(She knows that is a dream that will never, but she can hope, in the quiet sunlight of her dreams, she can hope) 

 

It’s too humid and the little fan that rotates in her room doesn’t do much to help her cool off, sweat making her tank top stick to her skin and she wakes up slightly, staring at a ceiling that seemed to be made of black hazy dots rather then the boring white color that it actually was. She rubbed at her eyes sleepily before turning her head slightly and smiling at the woman who was sound asleep next to her, one arm wrapped around Jean’s hip and the sound of Wanda Maximoff’s steady breathing soothed Jean’s nerves. 

 

Maybe it was the humidity, or the fact that the city outside their window was never close to falling asleep - there was no lull, no stopping of the flow of steady noise that permeated the air – only constant chaos, slightly muted at this hour of the night – but Jean couldn’t stop thinking. 

 

It was her loud thinking that seemed to have woken Wanda up, who mumbled quietly “You’re thinkng too loud again, firebird.” before pressing a kiss to Jean’s neck, eyes watching the red head with a mix of sleepy patience and curiosity as Jean shook her head and muttered a quiet “Sorry”. 

ii. 

There would be days where they would stay up for the entire night and just talk , and they make the shadows on the wall dance, with little sparks and flames that flicker in and out, like the fading stars that they never see anymore. 

 

Some days, when the thunder rumbles and the smell of rain is in the air and the humidity sticks to their skin, Wanda would pull Jean in close, press kisses to her skin and tell her old stories, of wolves and firebirds, and dresses of moonlight and starlight and even the sun. Jean would laugh, flaming hair and a glint in her eye as she says “ _That’s_ why you call me _firebird_? “ she’d say, and Wanda would nod, a faint blush appearing on her cheeks, but Jean would smile and pull her in close for a kiss, and they’d listen to the rain fall outside their window. 

 

The world was in a storm, but they were safe in their little niche. 

 

iii.

 

Sometimes, Jean would get lost in her thoughts, would slip into the _other_ mind that dwelled inside of her, burning through her veins like a inferno that roared to life at the slightest thought. 

 

She knew how to tame it, knew how to _control it_ \- she didn’t need any old professor to teach her how, she didn’t need anyone to interfere, to coddle her. 

 

There was fear -- everywhere they went, fear tagged along like a hellhound that tore at their legs -- she knew that, knew what fear she instilled in others. She didn’t care -- didn’t want to care anyway. She could handle the Phoenix Force.

 

She could burn the world and save it, again and again, but it wouldn’t matter, not really. Sometimes, the thoughts became a loop, and the loop became a ocean, and she seemed to be floating and floating, and the stars would flicker out and she couldn’t see them , not anymore --

 

_‘Come back to me, firebird ‘ --_

 

She’d hear Wanda’s voice, feel her hands (warm, always so warm, always burning with the chaos energy that flowed through her like a warm spring breeze, that swirled and ebbed and flowed, that wrapped around her and made you feel safe -- and she’d blink and meet Wanda’s eyes, and she’d let out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. 

 

iv.

 

Hunting down HYDRA bases was something that Wanda had been doing for a while, and she always seemed colder when she came back after each base. 

Jean doesn’t blame her. She knows, because she’s seen glimpses of what Hydra’s done. Knows of Wanda’s history, knows of the Maximoffs that had taken her and Pietro in, raised them as their own. Jean knows of old wooden dolls and too many overlapping layers of metal and barbwire memories. 

She knows of Erik Lehnsherr, knows of Lorna Dane. She knows about Billy Kaplan and Tommy Shepherd.

So when Wanda comes back to their apartment haggard and tired and ghosts lurking in her eyes, Jean takes her hand and holds her close, strokes her hair and talks about anything and everything, fills the silence with the mundane existence of the world outside of barbwire and blood stained memories. 

 

And when they go to sleep, at 1 in the morning, Wanda whispers a quiet ‘thank you to the shadows that dance along the walls, and falls asleep to the sound of Jean’s heartbeat. 

v. 

It’s simple enough that they fall into a pattern - save the world, retreat into their little niche , patch each other’s wounds up, live and survive to see the sun rise again.

 

It’s simple enough that they measure the time in their laughter and the quiet whispers of the night, stolen kisses and wandering hands in the summer air that they don’t need to talk, they don’t need to worry about the rest of the world in the quiet moments that’s punctuated by their little dance and it’s a possibility that they didn’t expect would happen in the course of their lives. 

 

Jean’s sitting on the counter laughing as Wanda attempts to bakes something (again) and there’s a moment where there’s a thought that flickers by - maybe this will last --- and Jean smiles before pulling Wanda close and stealing a kiss, and thinks of raspberries and sugar. 

 

(Wanda only laughs at her and says “You’re going to have to let me go before I burn this pie again, Jean.” --

“So? We can always go and buy one -- you’re much more interesting then some pie.” There’s a smirk on Jean’s face as she wraps her arms around Wanda’s waist and pulls her in close. “But -- “ and Wanda doesn’t finish her sentance because Jean decided that was the best moment to start pressing feather light kisses to Wanda’s stomach and hips , and the words died in her throat (and she didn’t mind it at all at that point). 

 

vi. 

 

Somewhere, in the back of their minds, they both know that this will not last. 

 

vii.

 

3 am on a tuesday in December

 

They say that the world ends in fire and ice -- instead, it ends in chaos and blood and a inferno that doesn’t let go . 

 

There was once snow, once a lifetime ago there was snow and it enveloped the world in a protective cocoon, made time seem as if it stopped (and she could stop time -- ) and there were two women standing in the snow, once upon a time.

 

A wolf and a firebird met in the snow, laughed and danced with each other - embraced each other and learned to love each other , learned to keep each other’s ghosts at bay.

 

They were nearly inseperable, and the wolf died in battle after promising to come back -- and she should have come back --- but she didn’t. The firebird, she always came back.

 

She always came back to the defeaning tick of the clock in her empty apartment, came back to the cold bed that was made of ghosts and ice. 

 

She came back to the bitter taste of raspberry dying in her mouth - to wilting marigolds and zinnias next to a fading photograph.

 

She remembers her wolf, remembers the kisses and the promises , but they are not enough. 

 

viii.

 

She burns the world, and leaves behind nothing but marigolds, zinnias, and the faint smell of raspberries among the dying stars and the ghost of Wanda Maximoff dancing on her lips again.

 

_end ._


End file.
